Mousetraps and the Moon, and Memory and Muchness
by sekdaniels
Summary: when you live in Carkitt Market, things can be a little different from what you're used to.


Author's Note: Written for Finals Round 1 of the QLFC 5

Team: Pride of Portree

Position: Beater 1

Beater 1 Prompt: Set your story in Carkitt Market

Prompts Used:

1\. (word) ambiguous

7\. (word) History

9\. (restriction) no dialogue tags

Word Count (excluding Author's Note): with a nod to Lewis Carroll and dearest Alice, the name of this piece comes by way of the Dormouse.

"The Dormouse had closed its eyes by this time, and was going off into a doze; but, on being pinched by the Hatter, it woke up again with a little shriek, and went on: `–that begins with an M, such as mouse-traps, and the moon, and memory, and muchness– you know you say things are "much of a muchness"–did you ever see such a thing as a drawing of a muchness?' "

Author's Note on content: 2364

Beta Love: with many thanks to all my Pride Teammates, especially Fragilereality, LittleTee, Story Please, Claude Amelia Song, and Arhtea.

 **Mousetraps, and the Moon, and Memory, and Muchness**

Long before the first customers begin to browse the stalls and shops of Carkitt Market, Emil will arrive to stoke the fires of Bowman E. Wright Blacksmith. It warms the space and, most importantly, the tiny nest of pine needles, cotton fluff and cloth scraps that is housed in the rafters just above his anvil. The heat will seep into the bones of the Blacksmith's smallest inhabitant. Less a nuisance than a neighbor, the mouse inside the Blacksmith's is now a permanent resident of the marketplace; and while he had had many a home in and around Muggle London, this one was easily his favorite.

He thought of himself as Scram, since this was the word he heard most when spotted by almost all people until he ended up here, at Carkitt Market — but that was another lifetime ago — before he'd accidentally come upon this place of magic and mystery and muchness. His life had been very different then. Here, in the cozy confines of the smithery, Emil was fond of calling him by Lil' Onewhenever they happened to cross paths. Unlike his existence with people before, Emil was happy to have Scram around. He would leave out his bread crusts and an apple core or peach pit before heading out into the early dawn light to chop wood to fuel the day's work. Scram, in turn, would make his way down from his bed upon feeling the warmth of the growing fires and partake of their shared breakfast, even going so far as to steal a sip of tea here and there. Nothing warmed a tummy on a winter's morning like a good English Breakfast, and Scram wasn't above having a right good swallow; for a mouse, anyway. Before long though, Emil would be back inside with his list of jobs, and Scram knew it was time to make scarce before the tools started to fly.

This was Scram's favorite part of the day. His belly full and the streets empty, he could saunter along and take in the bustle of the day about to begin. A box truck in front of _Condoria Plunkett's_ most certainly indicated a shipment of instruments coming in. This caught Scram's attention since instruments would need a good deal of padding for safe travel, and this was likely to provide some much-desired lining for his nest. He made his way down the alley and up the drainpipe to the roof. Being higher up was preferable when men were busy with activity on the ground; they were clumsy and overly large. Certainly, no mind would be paid to the tiny, brownish-gray field mouse beneath their feet.

Once the outside activity was done, Scram maneuvered himself back down the drain toward the nearest window. Inside, the receiving room was filled to the rafters with boxes as the employees of Plunkett's moved quickly from one container to another, checking off items on their list, and reviewing their larger listing of inventory. Scram's eyes were aglow with the prospect of all the choices he might have for adding to his little home, but he could also clearly see that it would be hours, if not longer, before it would be safe for him to explore the new arrivals. He retreated from the window and pattered the rest of the way back down the drain before continuing on his morning constitutional.

The smells that came out of the Jellied Eel Shop of a morning were nothing that could be described as good. That always struck him as strange since the scraps he grabbed from the back of the kitchens when no one was looking were absolutely delicious! Just goes to show that sometimes a book cannot be judged by its cover; or at least not by its eel jelly.

For now, though, he moved on quickly, holding his breath as he scampered by the eel shop on his way to the House Elf Placement Agency building. _That_ was the place to be in the morning at Carkitt Market.

Any scavenger who'd survived more than a single winter in Wizarding London _knew_ that House Elves were the best cooks. And since their emancipation, placement agencies had become little more than competitions in all things domestic. Baking, needlework, gardening...all talents were on display more for the gratification of showing up each other than in getting placement with a new home. Scram reveled in the feast of sticky buns, waffles, blueberry muffins and fresh bread that always accompanied the morning influx of House Elves looking for work. The placement agents at the Carkitt location, Tanry and Sooby, had a small corner in their office set aside with a dish and a placemat for their little friend who they referred to as Mr. Scuttles. No one could be more polite than a House Elf, and _these_ two elves, in particular, were fond of Scram. Both freed by benevolent masters, Tanry was always knitting little items of clothing for Scram. Her acquisition of clothing of her own seemed to have made her a bit obsessive; tiny booties, a small scarf and even a hat to keep off the winter chill. And Sooby was no better, leaving choice pieces of felt and flannel out for the mouse to cart off to his home for added warmth. Scram was so overloaded with generosity he had taken to bringing his items to a spot just off the alley where mice living in the Muggle parts of London might grab what they needed. It was a cycle of kindness that gave him a warmth inside he could never quite identify. He crept through the cracked basement window of the Placement Agency and looked forward to whatever surprises awaited him.

Even though the sun had only peeked over the horizon minutes before, the House Elf Placement Agency was packed to the gills with elves, food, and chaos. Scram picked his way carefully across the cramped floor staying close to the walls—history had proven to Scram many times that House Elves had a way of moving quickly when they needed to—and he was more than interested in preserving his small body from undue harm. While the shouting and waving of papers (resumes, mostly) ramped up, Scram climbed a table leg and let the glittering buffet of holiday treats overtake his senses. This close to Yuletide celebrations brought out the best in a good kitchen House Elf. The table teemed with sugarplums, Bubble and Squeak, mincemeat pie, a fragrant roasted leg of lamb, a Boxing Day pie, butter cookies and plates of fruit and cheese. There was nothing ambiguous about the level of talent being demonstrated here. Every imaginable delicacy was on display, and Scram could hardly wait to try it all. He'd almost wished he hadn't had so many bites of Emil's crusts this morning; but he knew he would not miss out.

Grabbing a sugarplum, he caught the eye of Sooby, who gave him a wink and a nod before turning his attention back to the irate female House Elf in front of him. Scram proceeded to make his way back towards the relative quiet of the office. His plate was already laden down with every type of goody from the plethora up front, and a few that were just for him. A hunk of cheese bigger than his own body stood in the center of his dish like a dairy Christmas tree just waiting to be decked in cranberry sauce garland and dark chocolate baubles before being devoured. Scram smacked his lips in anticipation, but held back from diving in just yet. He knew he would want to work up a _real_ appetite for this feast. So, he grabbed a spiced pecan, made his way toward the basement and headed back out into the market.

Scram knew the best way to build up a hankering for that fromagerie was to head clear across the entire length of Carkitt toward the Owl Post Office. Now, for a mouse, Scram realized that what he was doing must've looked like suicide to any ordinary mouse—counterintuitive didn't begin to cover it! Yet, his personal history of living with wizards and witches, and in the magical world they inhabited, had taught him an innate sense of trust in things that would have been impossible before. There was no conflict whatsoever in his mind even has headed in the direction of natural predators. He found the post office majestic in ways that Muggle post could not compare to, although it was more of a feeling than anything concrete.

The Owl Post Office sat at the far end of the market under a huge silver dome. It was oft confused, from a distance, with Gringott's, but Scram found that a silly mistake. Silver shone so much better under the light of the moon; it was obviously a natural beacon for the night flight of owls so they could return after a hunt more easily. Whenever he came down to the post, he could not help but remember the first time he saw the glittering silver dome, so close, as it was, to Cranbourne Street and the Leicester Square tube station. The first time he had seen the Owl Post Office was his introduction to wizards, witches and all things magical. It was the day he came to live in Carkitt.

That day had been a day like any other in London for a scavenger such as Scram. He _had_ been enjoying quite the feast behind the _Empress of India_ restaurant when he found himself confronted by an old and terrible nemesis; a tom cat of some size and repute along St. Martin's Lane. Last time they had met, Scram had managed to squeeze into a ground level crawl space outside of _The Porcupine_ just in time to watch old Tom smash himself into door. As evidenced from his face, he had taken it badly…

Scram remembered slowly backed away from his Chicken Tikka, thinking, quickly, about where he might go. Up seemed his only option and he leapt at a stone sticking out of the facade only moments before Tom took his first swipe. Being reminded that his enemy had a full complement of claws had only complicated Scram's situation. If Tom could climb, being small would be Scram's only defense; and climb he could. Scram chose to stay inside the gutters, finding safety from teeth, if not the occasional swipe of a paw. Scram had only wanted to get over to the tube; there he knew he could get lost in the gears of an escalator or crawl down into one of the human's oversized bags, if only temporarily.

They scrambled and ran across the rooftops and drains for half a block until Scram made his move. He threw himself from the safety of his gutter down into a full dumpster directly outside _Angus Steakhouse_ , sliding down along the wet plastic bag and oozing himself out of a small hole that had been eaten into the receptacle by rust. Back on ground level, Scram sprinted towards the tube. His only advantage now was how long it would take Tom to safely get down to the ground; the many lives of cats were pure rubbish as far as he could tell. Dodging feet as best he could, Scram was almost to his destination when he got caught up in a long dark piece of fabric that seemed to have no end. He was swept up in it to the point where he could not only not see, but he could not find his way out. However, Tom could not find him either. Scram lay quiet in his hiding place and listened to the yowl of the frustrated cat as he was carried off in the strangely voluminous human garment.

And then, the yowling stopped. Actually, all the other noise stopped. There was suddenly no traffic or even the foul odor of the tube station that he could detect. Scram heard the footsteps of the person he was traveling with and then, eventually, other voices and movement, but Leicester Square seemed to have disappeared. Scram fussed around a bit until he found what appeared to be daylight and made his way toward it. When he emerged, the Owl Post Office was the first thing he saw. Well, truth be told, the owls were the first thing he saw, and he was gravely aware that he might have fared better with old Tom.

Scram could only shake his head, thinking back on it all now. He settled up against a chimney atop _Cogg and Bell_ 's, nibbling on his pecan and watching the graceful flight of owls coming and going from the post office. The sun was finally fully up, and even on this chilly winter's morning, he felt warmth on his fur. Smiles did not come naturally to a mouse, but Scram had one on his face now. He was content. He was provided for. He was even taken care of by the odd compliment of beings that inhabited this strange little piece of London. A Northern Pygmy Owl flew over and took up residence beside him. Scram leaned over to share his pecan and they sat in companionable silence until his owl friend took off again. He sighed, enjoying just a few moments of bliss before the hustle and bustle of the day really began.

By the time Scram returned to Emil, the blacksmith's day was mostly over. His muscled form stood sweaty and stained over one last steaming shoe cooling in the water tank. Scram climbed onto the empty anvil and accepted a scratch from the stoic human he shared his living space with before Emil hung up his tongs, took off his apron and headed toward his own dwelling out behind the shop. Before he left, however, he pointed up, towards where Scram made his bed, and smiled.

There, waiting for him in the rafters, was a very large, very familiar looking wedge of cheese complete with a bow on top; and a note.

 _Happy Christmas! - love, Tanry and Sooby_

Happy Christmas, indeed. For _this_ mouse, every day was Christmas day.


End file.
